The vent stared down at her like an open eye, unblinking and wrong.
Selene’s spine went rigid. The air felt thick, too still, and the silence inside the penthouse suddenly turned oppressive, no longer comfort but suffocation. She took a step back from the bed, her grip tightening instinctively around the gun in her hand. Across the room, Darius’s eyes scanned the ceiling, his jaw clenched hard, every inch of him tense and ready for war.
“That vent wasn’t open before,” she said quietly, her voice low, caught somewhere between fear and rising anger.
“No,” he muttered. “It wasn’t.”
He moved first, dragging a chair under the vent like muscle memory had carried him. Selene stood below, gun raised, pulse pounding like war drums in her throat. Darius flicked on a flashlight and angled it into
